Little Pack of Wolves
by Cornflower1999
Summary: Short stories about the Stark children before Ned's death, when the Starks were all still living in Winterfell. Formerly called "Children of Winterfell". Anyone who reviews gets a free fortune via PM!
1. Arya

Eddard Stark rose from where he had been sitting hunched over a parchment in his study and pushed in his chair with a satisfied sigh. It was very late at night, and Catelyn and the children were already in bed. Ned had had some extra work to attend to tonight, but now he was done. He stretched tiredly. It had been a long day, and he was ready for bed.

Before he could even begin heading towards the door, however, it creaked open on its own, if only the tiniest bit. Perhaps no one else would have noticed- it had opened just a crack- but Ned was five times a father, six if you counted Jon. A small someone who was supposed to be in bed was watching him. He smiled. It was his Rickon, his youngest, no doubt, or perhaps Bran. "Come in, little mouse." called the Lord of Winterfell gently.

But it wasn't Rickon, or Bran. It was a girl Ned saw standing in the doorway, her brown hair disheveled, bare feet poking out from under her nightgown. She cradled a squirming, chubby wolf pup against her chest. Her eyebrows were knitted together in an expression of worry. "Arya?"

He sat back down in his big wooden chair, scooting aside so there was room for the two of them, and patted the seat. Arya set the wolf pup down onto the floor and accepted the invitation, leaning against her father as she did. He put an arm around her. "What is it, hmm? Are you sick?" Ned brushed the hair back from his daughter's forehead. She shook her head.

"I just…" she faltered as though she were embarrassed, "I had a dream."

"A dream? Since when is my brave lady knight frightened by nightmares?" Ned teased gently.

"Well… You remember last week when you had to behead that deserter? Bran told me all about it." Ned had executed a deserter of the Night's watch a week ago. The man had fled after encountering White Walkers, or so he'd claimed.

"Oh, he didn't scare you now, did he?"

"No," said Arya, "But I dreamt about when it happened. Only it wasn't him who was being beheaded. It- it was you."

"And that's what's troubling you?"

Arya looked down and gave a little nod.

"Come here." Ned said gently, holding his arms out to his daughter. She settled herself comfortably in his lap and snuggled against his chest as his strong warrior's arms held her tight. So that was it. No wonder she had looked worried.

For several moments, all was silent, save for the chorus of crickets outside and the popping of the fire in the hearth. As of now it only needed be lit at night, but Ned knew the days were quickly coming when a fire would burn at all times of day in every hearth in Winterfell to ward off the biting chill of the long winter that would seep in no matter what.

Suddenly Arya broke the embrace and sat up, looking her father square in the eye. "What happened to you in my dream… Something like that could never really happen. Could it?"

Ned's first impulse was to tell her no, that of course something like that could never happen. Isn't that what any parent would say to a child in Arya's situation? But then he paused. This world was a cruel one, and winter was coming. He could tell her that if he wished, but he knew in his heart he could not guarantee it. He looked into her eyes, big, round, afraid as they rested on him, waiting anxiously for his reply.

"No, of course not, sweet girl. Of course not."

"But what if it did?"

Eddard Stark sighed. "It was only a dream, Arya. Nothing more. You don't need to be worrying yourself over things like that. There's enough in this world to worry about already. Alright?" He gave her cheek a quick pinch, earning at last a little smile. "Alright."

"That's my girl. Now off to bed with you. You shouldn't be up at this hour," he patted her leg and lifted her off his lap with a hefty groan, "Oof! You're getting heavy. At this rate you'll soon be as tall as Sansa."

"I hope so. Maybe then she'll stop acting like she's better than me." Arya grumbled, which made Ned inwardly smile. Arya's rivalry with Sansa reminded him of himself and his own siblings when he was a boy. He watched as she scooped little Nymeria back up into her arms. "That creature of yours had better not have been using my study as its own personal privy, you hear? You know she's not to be in here. I allowed it just this once."

"Don't worry. Nymeria's a good girl. I've already trained her." Arya said as she headed toward the door. Then she turned and added "Good night, Father."

She didn't notice her father chuckling fondly at her as she left. "Good night, Arya."


	2. Bran

Bran stands in front of his target in the courtyard of Winterfell, right arm drawn back as he holds an arrow in place, squinting as he focuses on its center. He thinks about what his older brothers tell him: _Relax your bow arm. Don't think too much._ The bowstring grows taught beneath the arrow.

This morning he was up with the sun. He'd run out the doors of Winterfell long before his brothers and sisters had risen from their beds, drinking in the chilly morning air as it bit at his cheeks, its freshness further invigorating him. He had stopped only to grab a bread roll for his breakfast on his way through the kitchens and _could've_ been out earlier, he thinks with regret, had he not bumped into his mother there. Lady Catelyn Stark, an early riser, had made him sit down at the table and eat a proper breakfast with a plate and fork and napkin, much to Bran's annoyance. Only when he had scarfed down all of his meal did Catelyn let him continue on his way.

Bran is ten years old and, as she likes to say, all boy. At any hour of the day he can be found running, climbing, or horseback riding. Wherever he goes he, rarely is he ever seen without his wooden sword tucked into his belt. He loves nothing more than to play games of war with his friends, best his little brother in mock duel, or lately, practice archery, a skill Jon and Robb have begun to teach him. Dreams of knighthood fill his head. He is going to be a soldier when he grows up and become a great warrior and win many battles. He knows he will. Already fast and strong for his age, there's nothing standing in his way.

Except for one thing. Bran is terrible at archery.

His brothers began teaching him two weeks ago, and although it seems he's done nothing but practice, he hasn't made a bull's-eye once. Except for when he doesn't hit the target at all, which is most of the time, the only thing he _has_ managed to hit is its outer rim. It frustrates Bran to no end. No one's ever heard of a knight who can't shoot.

So this morning he woke early, his mind made up. Today he will shoot a bull's-eye.

All morning, Bran fires away, loosing arrow after arrow after arrow. At first, determination fills him like an unquenchable fire. But now the sun is high in the sky, resting at its noontime zenith directly above the world, and not a single arrow has made it to the target's center. Bran is beginning to lose steam. Still, as he stands aiming what feels like the thousandth arrow at the wheel of coiled straw, he can't suppress the tiny bit of hope that tells him that just maybe, this will be the one.

He takes a deep breath and releases.

 _Smack!_ The arrow flies clean over the target, hits the wall behind it, then falls to the ground, where it lies snapped in two like a broken bird suddenly arrested in its flight. Bran drives the toe of his boot into the dirt and curses.

"Hey, pipsqueak! What's wrong? Can't even shoot an arrow proper?" comes a voice from behind. The second voice that follows it comes in short, broken spurts because its owner is laughing so hard.

"That's the worst shot I've ever seen! My little sister could do it better!"

Bran turns around, although he doesn't need to to know who it is. There they are, Cedric and Wendell, laughing at him as though they have just witnessed the most ludicrous sight in Westeros. Bran might as well have been standing out in the courtyard wearing a dress.

The children of some servants of Winterfell, Cedric and Wendell have been tormenting Bran for five years. The former, a stocky and impossibly tall boy for his age is always munching at some sweet he has stolen from the kitchens. He is constantly accompanied by the latter, a lanky, squirelly thing who follows Cedric like a dog, parroting everything the other says or does. They are older and bigger than Bran, and although he doesn't like to admit it, they scare him.

"Look at 'im trying to shoot! He shoots like a girl! " Cedric jeers.

"Maybe he _is_ a girl. Look at his hair!"

"Shut up!" Bran cries, his fists clenched.

"Ooh, Stark's little girl is getting cross! What's he going to do to us? Shoot an arrow at us that'll miss us completely? I'm scared!" the bigger boy whines in a parody of fear, which makes Wendell hoot with laughter.

"He couldn't do a thing to us even if we put a sword right in his hands!"

"I said _shut up!_ " Bran's voice is rising. A tinge of red has risen to his cheeks. "And I _can_ shoot!"

"Then prove it!" Cedric leans in intimidatingly, his large shadow falling over the younger boy. Today it's a slab of iced pumpkin cake he has in his hand, and Bran can smell it on his breath. He stutters for a moment as he struggles for something to say. But in the end he falls silent and looks down at his feet. He knows he can't prove it. For a moment Cedric's expression remains serious as looms over the Stark boy and stares at him through narrowed eyes. Then he and Wendell simultaneously collapse into another fit of laughter.

"He can't prove it!" Wendell exclaims between guffaws.

"I'd trade in all my sweets for extra chores for a year the day I see _him_ shoot a bull's-eye!" says Cedric before continuing to taunt his victim. "And listen to this! I heard him saying to the blacksmith's boy the other day that he wants to be a knight. A _knight_! Just imagine, a little sissy shrimp like him. He actually thinks he can be a knight! How stupid can you be?" Now the two bullies really are doubled over.

Bran feels his cheeks grow hotter as they continue to laugh, though this time with shame and embarrassment instead of rage. For a few more seconds he remains there, looking at his feet.

Then he throws down his bow and runs.

"What's the matter, sissy? You going to cry?"

"What a baby!" The boy can hear them continuing to make fun of him as he runs away. How dare they make sport of him like this! How dare they make sport of his most cherished dream! But what makes him feel the most ashamed is that they're right. He _is_ trying not to cry. Now he really does feel stupid. A soldier doesn't cry.

He runs across the courtyard, his feet pounding against the dusty ground, away from his tormentors, away from everything. Tears that he refuses to let fall blur his vision. He bumps into a maid carrying a load of laundry as he goes. "Easy now, little lord." Bran doesn't even look at her. He only continues to run. He runs until he comes to the wall of the First Keep and begins to climb.

The boy has climbed these walls a thousand times before. Every stone or beam that juts out for him to hold on to, every little cleft that provides a foothold, he knows them like the back of his hand. They are there ingrained in his muscle memory, and it takes over as he climbs. He doesn't have to think, doesn't even have to look, an ability that allows him to make his way up the tower quickly and nimbly as a young squirrel. He knows his mother would have a fit if she saw him up here again. Catelyn is always telling him not to climb. He thinks she worries too much. This is second nature to him. He'd never fall.

He climbs until he reaches the Broken Tower and tumbles inside.

Once the Broken Tower was the tallest watchtower of the castle, until it was hit by an unlucky bolt of lightning during a storm many years ago. It was deemed beyond repair, and now, with its walls jagged and broken, the once proud tower is only a skeleton of what it used to be. Debris and pieces of crumbled wall cover the floor. Ivy that has long since creeped in climbs the walls and hangs from the ceiling. Save for the crows that have made their nests within the tower, no one comes here anymore. Except for Bran.

His breath coming quick and shallow, Bran brings his knees to his forehead and curls into a ball. He will not cry, he _will not_ cry. Crying is for little boys. Ten is not a little boy anymore. As he remains there with his eyes squeezed shut, he suddenly hears the sound of a bird chirping sweetly. It sounds very nearby, so he lifts his head. There in front of him, perched in the window, a robin sings a warbling tune. Bran stares at it in awe. There are always crows here in the tower, but he has never seen a robin so close up before. Funnily enough, the bird seems to be staring right back at him with its little black eyes.

He listens to its song a little while longer, then watches it fly away. The little bird glides past the castle, past the green moor where in the distance the Kingsroad winds, and finally over the cloud-kissed hills beyond. The view is beautiful from up here, and Bran stops and admires it. Just now the sunlight shifts and frames it so that it could not be more perfect, and warm rays stream into the tower.

This is _his_ place. He comes here when he is sad, when he wants to be alone, when he wants to refresh himself, when he is happy. It is his safe place, a hidden refuge that only he knows, away from the hustle and bustle of castle life. Looking out at the pleasant scenery, the bird's song, the refreshingly cool breeze that rushes to meet his face- it all calms Bran and he begins to feel better.

The raucous laughter of two boys disrupts him from his reverie. He looks down. Wendell and Cedric are still there in the courtyard, only now Bran sees that they have his bow, his precious bow that his father had made just for him. They are pretending to shoot arrows and are very obviously mocking him, which makes them shout with laughter. _Why those little…_ Anger creeps back into his heart, but is quickly replaced by something else. Determination sweeps over him anew, more powerful even than before. _Dimwits. I'll show them_ , he thinks, and with no further thought climbs out of the tower.

That evening at dinner there is a toast to celebrate Bran's first bull's-eye. But even better are the looks on Cedric and Wendell's faces as they stand slack-jawed at Bran's victory. For once they have nothing to say to him. Even as he lies in bed that night, the memory still makes him smile.


	3. Sansa and Rickon

The Great Hall of Winterfell rang with music and laughter, with the din of many voices and the shouts of men who had had too much to drink. The festive light of candelabras twinkled on every table, and men and women filled their plates with good things to eat. Just one sniff of the air in the room was enough to make one's mouth water. The castle cooks had certainly done their finest tonight. All was nothing short of perfect for Eddard Stark's nameday feast.

At the front of the hall, a space had been cleared for dancing near the dais where the musicians played. Those who wished to twirled to the lively music of vielles, shawms, and the deep heartbeat of the drum.

Sansa Stark sat alone at a bench, watching the dancers move gracefully across the floor and hoping that, perhaps, one of the young lads might ask her to dance.

But none of them ever did.

Only a while ago, the bench she sat on had been filled with young maidens, all dressed in their finest with flowers in their hair that had been braided and twisted this way and that, Sansa among them. Each of them had been vying for male attention, and now each of them had gotten their wish and been whisked off to the clearing by some young lord to dance. Each of them except Sansa.

Now only Lord Stark's eldest daughter remained on the bench. She watched a pretty maid in a gown of deep blue silk dancing in the arms of a youth with charmingly messy hair and a winsome smile- the one Sansa had had her eye on. She sighed. Every other girl at the feast had a handsome boy to dance with. Why had no one picked her?

A boisterous chorus of shouts arose somewhere (someone had lost a drinking game), causing Sansa to look behind her. As she did, something else caught her eye- her youngest brother Rickon, also sitting alone at a bench. The little boy was scowling, and his head drooped. _Oh, well_ , thought Sansa reluctantly, getting up, _I'd best go and see what's wrong._

The girl made her way to where her brother sat not far away. "Rickon." she said softly, putting a gentle hand on his small shoulder. "Hello, Sansa." the boy sniffled despondently. "Rickon, what's wrong?" Sansa settled herself on the bench beside him.

"Nobody will dance with me!"

Surprised to hear her own woes echoed in those of her little brother's, Sansa didn't respond right away. They were the oldest daughter and the youngest son, a six-year-old boy and a thirteen-year-old girl who was nearly a young woman, but perhaps they weren't so different from each other after all.

"Did you ask anyone to dance with you?"

"Yes. I asked Bran, and he said dancing's for girls. So I asked Arya and she said she would, but then Bran came up and challenged her with his sword and she ran after him and never came back."

"Ah. I see." Sansa replied, slightly amused. Sure enough, there were Bran and Arya chasing each other among the trestle tables, their wooden swords drawn. Neither was looking where they were going, and just now Bran collided with a maid carrying a huge bowl of apples. In a matter of seconds, the apples were rolling across the floor.

From were they sat watching in the distance, the scene finally elicited a smile from Rickon, and he burst into giggles. A second later, Sansa found herself laughing too. Arya and Bran, now looking meek as mice, were receiving a tongue-lashing from the angry maid, which only made them laugh harder.

The song ended. Side by side, they watched their brother and sister scrabble across the floor and under tables, picking up apples under the vexed eye of the serving maid. She watched them like a hawk.

"You know," Sansa said to her little brother, "I have the same problem too."

"Really?" Rickon looked up at her, wide-eyed.

"Yes. No one will dance with me either. But I'll dance with you."

At once Rickon's face lit up in a smile. "Will you, Sansa?"

"Of course I will."

The little boy didn't waste another moment. He was already on his feet. "Come on then!" His small hand closed around hers. Smiling, Sansa stooped to take it and allowed herself to be dragged off to the middle of the dancers as the musicians struck up their instruments once more.


	4. Robb

The seventh day of the week is always a day of rest in Winterfell. On these days, Eddard Stark is relieved from his lordly duties. Lady Catelyn can be found- if the weather is fair- outside in the sun plugging away at some knitting project or a thick book. The Stark children have no lessons on this day and are free to do as they please, in turn also granting a well-earned day of respite to Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane. (Goodness knows they need it after keeping those children in line all week). The younger three spend the day outside running and playing, while Sansa mostly keeps to herself. As for the two older boys- well, they would rather not say what they are doing, but no one sees much of them of the seventh day, that's for sure.

But today there has been no going out for anyone. Foul weather has kept them all in. From the first grey light of dawn all the way until the evening meal, the steady drumming of the rain can be heard upon the roof of Winterfell by its every inhabitant.

Robb has had enough. It is bad enough to be cooped up inside on a free day, and even worse to be cooped up inside with four younger siblings. Sansa and Arya are bickering again. The two younger boys are getting restless. Rickon has resorted to chasing an equally hyperactive Shaggydog around like a little whirlwind, storming every room in the castle. Robb has already bumped into him twice, and if it happens again he is not going to be pleased. Even the direwolf pups seem to be getting themselves into more mischief than usual today. Robb has been trying to read, but it is hard to focus with all the chatter his siblings are making. The air inside, warm and stuffy from the fireplaces and the windows all shut against the rain, only heightens his agitation and makes him feel foggy.

So when the rain finally stops sometime after dinner, Robb doesn't wait another second. He abandons his spot by the window and the book he is beginning to grow tired of, grabs his cloak, and heads towards the door. He is going for a walk.

By the time he is outside, the evening sun is beginning to poke through the clouds, and rapidly growing patches of blue sky are popping up everywhere. The last rays of the day stream out in all directions from behind a cloud, lighting its edges up gold. Robb admires the sight. It isn't often you see the sunbeams create a halo round a cloud like this. Old Nan used to tell him this was the Gods' way of coming down on their vessel of cloud to look at their children, and even now that he is older it isn't so hard to believe. The sight is almost heavenly, angelic.

As the young man ambles through the courtyard, Grey Wind trotting at his heels, he watches the place slowly come back to life now that the weather has broken. He sees Mikken the blacksmith go back to his anvil in the forge, and Hodor the simple-minded stablehand carrying buckets of hot mush to the stables. The tanner is back at his station too, and soon the smoke from the laborers' work that always seems to cloud the courtyard is rising again. Still, it does nothing to dampen the crisp scent that is always there after the rain, the smell of damp earth and clean air. Robb breathes it in deeply. The fresh air is a welcome change after the stuffiness of the castle.

The tanner's daughter is making her way across the courtyard with an armful of supplies for her father. Robb waves at her. "Good evening, Lilla!"

The girl ducks her head shyly. "Good evening, m'lord."

"Looking lovely today!"

She only smiles coyly at him from over her shoulder and continues to walk.

Robb has had a dreadful crush on Lilla- with her long chesnut braid and green eyes- for years. He is always trying to earn her attention. Maybe someday he will.

The youth continues along his way, by and by wandering over to the oldest part of the castle. It isn't long before he finds himself standing before the entryway of the crypts of Winterfell, in which the dead of House Stark are entombed. Stone direwolves, the sigil of the Stark family, guard the entrance with an iron stare. It has been a long time since Robb been in the crypts. Perhaps it is time he pay the dead there a visit.

The cheerful light outside fades into darkness as Robb descends further and further into the crypts. The outside noises fade away with it, replaced by the silence of the crypts. It is a different kind of silence, a sacred silence, and it holds more power than any sound could. One knows as soon as they step inside that this is a place for hushed reverence. Soon the only sound Robb hears is that of his own footfall echoing down the shadowy passageway. Yes, it has been a while since he has been down here, but it is by no means unfamiliar to him. He and his brothers and sisters used to play here as young children. The younger ones still do. He still smiles when he thinks of the time that Jon, having covered himself with flour, hid among the tombs and frightened their smaller siblings into thinking he was a ghost. Lady Catelyn had made him pay for it, but even after his punishment was over the two boys could not stop laughing.

Between the pillars, carved likenesses of fallen Starks line the walls. The torchlight flickers across their stone faces, and Robb almost feels as though they are watching him with their solemn, vacant eyes. What were they really like in real life? They couldn't have been like this. A mason, even the best one, can only capture so much of a person within his stone depictions. He cannot capture their character, their life, the look in their eyes when they were real and warm and living. _I suppose I will never know_ , Robb thinks: this is all that is left of them now. The naked swords that lie across the statues' laps are rusted with time, their glory faded like that like of their bearers.

Robb recites each of their names in his head as he passes them by: Rickard, his grandfather he never knew, slain by Aerys Targaryen. Brandon, his eldest son, slain along with him. Their deaths sparked Robert's rebellion. Cregan. Beron. Willam. Edwyle. Lyanna, his father's beautiful sister, who loved the winter roses.

While all members of House Stark are buried here in the crypts, statues are only erected for Lords of Winterfell, although Robb's father broke tradition when he had statues made for his siblings Lyanna and Brandon. As the firstborn son of the current Lord of Winterfell, someday Robb will take his place here among them and a statue of him will be carved into the stone walls. It isn't a thought he particularly likes, but still it causes him to stop and think.

A sudden noise back near the crypt entrance startles him and causes him to jump. Has thinking of the ghost stories he and his siblings used to tell about this place started to get to him? Of course, it isn't a ghost that comes down the passage to meet him. It's only-

"Father." Robb smiles.

"Thought I heard something down here." comes the familiar warm voice, and the silhouette that has come into view has makes its way down the long hall until Robb can see it clearly.

"It's a mad house in there, isn't it?" says Ned, a knowing spark in his eye, "Bet you needed a break. I did too. Hello, Lya." Bowing his head, he stoops on one knee for a moment to reverently touch the effigy of his dead sister. Then he rises to join his son, who is standing before it.

"She was a character, your aunt was," he says, never once taking his eyes off the veiled face of chiseled stone with its gentle expression, "A sweet girl. But wild. Oh, Lyanna was a spirited one," he chuckles softly and shakes his head as though recalling fond memories of his younger sister, "The Wolf Maid, they called her. She was much like Arya, you know, when she was younger. Beat the shite out of us boys any day when it came to our play duels, though none of us would ever like to admit it."

Robb thinks of his tomboyish little sister. Now he knows were she got it from.

"I still remember," continues Ned, "the opening feast at the tourney at Harrenhal. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sang a song that made Lyanna weep. Your Uncle Benjen teased her for crying, and-"

"She poured wine over his head." Robb says the last part of the sentence with his father, small smiles playing at each of their lips. The story is an old family favorite. "It was the same tourney were Lyanna rescued poor Howland Reed who was being bullied by those three churls, squires of some knights who had come to participate in the tourney. She took him back to her tent and dressed his wounds herself. That's the kind of person Lya was. A simple deed, but people remembered her for it."

For a few quiet moments Ned's words hang in the air, and once again there is nothing but the crypts' sacred silence.

"Father," Robb says at last, "I was thinking… When I am buried here- when a statue of me stands here in these crypts- I hope I will not just be another name lost in history that no one thinks or knows anything of," the Lord of Winterfell turns towards the young man and looks at him earnestly, "I hope people will remember me for my deeds, for making a difference. For my nobleness, as they did Lyanna."

A few seconds slide by before Ned replies, as though he is thinking about what his son has just said. "Well," he sighs, "I don't know what things you will do during your time as Lord of Winterfell when you inherit my title. I don't know what decisions you'll make, or if it'll be a time of peace or of war. But I do know one thing."

Robb looks at him curiously. His father clasps a hand on his shoulder and pulls him into a steady gaze before finishing his statement: "That you are my son, and you'll make me proud.

The answer satisfies Robb, comforts him even. He only hopes he can make it true. "Thank you, Father. I hope I will."

"I know you will," says the Lord of Winterfell with no lack of confidence, "Now, come on. The cook's made an apple pie, your favorite. There are two slices up there with our names on them." He knows his Robb can't resist Gage's apple pie. With an arm still around his shoulder, father and son turn around and start back towards the light.


	5. Jon

" _When my husband brought that baby home from the war, I couldn't bear to look at him, didn't want to see those brown stranger's eyes staring at me. So I prayed to the gods 'Take him away, make him die.' He got the pox and I knew I was the worst woman who ever lived… So I prayed to all Seven Gods "Let the boy live… and I'll love him. I'll be a mother to him." And he lived. And I couldn't keep my promise. And everything that's happened since then, all this horror that's come to my family, it's all because I couldn't love a motherless child." –Catelyn Stark, S3E2_

Lady Catelyn is exhausted.

By the time she finally gets a moment to herself, the entire morning has gone by. Robb has been ill with a cough and a fever and cries for her every time she leaves his sight, and little Sansa, usually such a sweet-tempered, easy baby, has been especially colicky. The infant's wails echo down the hall, matching those of her brother. And with Ned away on business, things are only harder for Catelyn. All morning she runs about like a headless chicken, going back and forth between her sick little boy and her colicky baby, all the while trying to keep the one left behind content.

It is noon before she finally gets Sansa to fall sleep and Old Nan offers to take over her place at Robb's bedside. To her great relief Robb agrees, if only for the promise of a story about the fiercest dragon that ever lived- the boy is utterly obsessed with dragons- finally liberating his worn-out mother to go and have a moment to herself.

Alone at last in her quarters, she sinks into the chair at her dressing table and closes her eyes. Rubbing her aching temples (courtesy of an ailing Robb, who had her up at an ungodly hour that morning), she lets out a long sigh.

Peace. Finally. No cries of unhappy little ones float down the corridor to meet her, no distressed little voice calling for mother. Her children are happy, if only for a little while, and she can relax.

But as she remains there resting her eyes at the dressing table, she becomes aware of something that sounds rather like the shuffling of small feet tottering down the hall. To her dread, she first thinks it is Robb coming to look for her. But when she leans back to peer through her open bedroom door into the corridor, it is a different child her eyes are met with.

Jon Snow. The bastard of Winterfell. _Ned's_ bastard son.

She hates him. _No, not hate,_ she reminds herself, telling herself for the millionth time that it is cruel to hate a motherless child who had no control over the manner in which he came into this world. The child is blameless. She knows this.

But still, she cannot stand the sight of Jon, a constant living, walking reminder that Ned- _her_ Ned- had been unfaithful to her, had loved another woman.

Presently, the child is puttering unhurriedly down the corridor, chattering to himself in his soft baby lisp. Every moment or so he stops to push his thick black curls out of his eyes. He is bored, Catelyn thinks. He must be bored. He usually spends his days playing with Robb, who is the same age as he. But today Robb is sick in bed, leaving Jon without a playmate. She watches him as he pauses outside the door directly across the hall from her own- the door to Ned's study. A moment later, he disappears inside. It must've been left unlocked.

A few seconds later, Catelyn hears a scraping noise, then realizes what it is when Jon appears through the doorway again, this time pushing a chair across the study with every ounce of his strength. He manages to push the chair up against a bookshelf at the other end of the room, then clambers up to stand on it. As he stretches himself out to his full four-year-old height and extends a tiny arm up, up, up towards a book on the highest shelf, Lady Catelyn feels a prickle of amusement begin to soften her, then an urge to smile, but she quickly squashes them both. Meanwhile, the little boy stretches his arm up even further.

No luck.

He climbs off the chair, takes a thick tome from a lower shelf that is really more column than book, and places it on the chair with a tiny grunt. At first Catelyn thinks he means to read it, but when she sees him climb back onto the chair and step onto the book, she realizes what he is doing and sweeps off across the hall. The boy will hurt himself, and she must stop him before he does.

However, by the time she reaches her husband's study, it is too late. Jon has toppled, book and all, onto the hard wooden floor, and the wailing has begun. She sees blood beginning to rise on his knee; it appears it has been scraped. In his distress, he doesn't notice Lady Catelyn standing in the doorway in front of him. He only cries.

A little awkwardly, Catelyn clears her throat. "Jon." She scarcely ever speaks to the boy, save only for when she truly has to.

He doesn't hear her.

"Jon," she repeats, this time a little more urgently. Baby Sansa has finally just fallen asleep, and she desperately does not want the sound of his howling to wake her again. This time Jon hears her. He stops mid-wail. When he sees Catelyn standing before him, he falls utterly silent and stares at her with a look of- What is it? Awe? Fear? A tear still clings to his cheek. Suddenly, Catelyn is hit by a pang of guilt. Even Jon himself, a child of four, knows how she feels about him.

"Jon," she says again, "Have you hurt yourself?"

The little boy nods. "My knee," he says tearfully, his voice small.

"Come. I will take you to Maester Luwin. He will make it better for you."

But instead of coming to her as she expects, a look of horror crosses his face and he bursts into a fresh fit of tears. "No, pwease! Pwease! Maester Luwin is scary!"

"There's nothing to be afraid of. Maester Luwin won't hurt you, he's only going to make your knee feel better. Come," Catelyn tries to assure him. She has to admit, the assurance she gives sounds emotionless, void of any warmth. Even now, she is unable to put aside her feelings towards this child that is the evidence of her husband's infidelity.

But Jon only hides his face in his hands and continues to cry. "No!"

For a moment, Catelyn merely watches him, thinking. Blood is beginning to trickle down his leg; it needs to be bandaged quickly. Finally, she speaks. "Come, then. I will take care of it for you." She can see that it will be much easier to take care of Jon's wound herself than to try to take him to Maester Luwin.

At once, the boy ceases his crying. After pressing the blood away from his leg with her handkerchief, the Lady of Winterfell leads him out the study door. Obediently, Jon follows her. He is very quiet, and Catelyn can tell that he feels shy around her.

However, they haven't gone more than a few paces down the corridor when Jon freezes in his tracks. "I can't walk," he states simply, "It hurts too much."

Lady Catelyn looks down at him. "You're sure you can't walk?"

The little boy nods. His eyes remind her of a puppy's.

Catelyn sighs. What is she supposed to do? Yes, of course. She _knows_ what she is supposed to do. The gods are truly testing her today. "Up you go, then." Carefully, she lifts the child up.

She is surprised to feel him relax into her hold right away. In her arms, he feels no different than Robb. It's the same comforting weight of a warm little body against her own. The same familiar pressure on her hip as she balances him there, the small arms around her neck in just the same places. As Jon lowers his head to rest his cheek against her shoulder, she feels something inside her loosen, just a bit.

She carries him to the apothecary, where shelves stocked full with medical supplies and bottled medicines- many of them made by Maester Luwin himself- line the walls. After placing Jon on a chair, she cleans his scrape with a damp cloth, then treats it with a salve from one of the many bottles. It seems that when he fell from the chair, not only did he scrape his knee, but he also had the misfortune to land on a sharp pebble that was on the floor. No wonder the wound had bled so much. Jon winces several times as she tends his injury, but to her relief he soldiers the pain bravely and whimpers only once.

"Thank you, Lady Cat'wyn," he lisps earnestly as she ties a bandage around his knee. He pushes his thick locks away from his eyes again.

Against her will, Catelyn feels the urge to smile return. If it were any other child, she _would_ smile. "You're welcome, Jon." The words come out colder than she intends them to. A little more gently, she adds, "What were you doing trying to reach that book anyway?"

"I wanted a story," Jon replies, "I wanted a story but Old Nan was busy. So I saw that green book at the top of the bookshelf and it looked like one Father read to me once."

 _Father._ She wishes he didn't have to call him that.

"So I tried to get it. But I fell," he finishes sadly.

"Yes, that was a very dangerous thing to do, standing on the book on the chair like that. You mustn't do that again, do you hear?" Catelyn scolds.

Jon nods. "I'm sowwy."

A second later he speaks again. "Is Old Nan still busy? Can you take me to her?"

"No. She's with Robb right now, and Robb is ill. You're not to go near him or else you could get sick too."

"Where's Father?"

"Your father's gone up to the Wall for a few days, remember?"

"Oh." He drops his head, disappointed.

"Well," Catelyn says, tying the final not on his bandage, "You're all done. Go off and play. And try not to get into any more trouble." She helps him off the chair and he starts for the door. But just as he is about to leave, he turns back around.

"Lady Cat'wyn?"

"Yes, Jon?"

"Will _you_ tell me a story?"

The question takes Catelyn completely by surprise. Jon Snow wants her, the woman who has treated him with nothing but contempt, who has never even had a conversation with him until today, to tell him a story. Then again, it was easy for children of this age to forget things like this and to go on as if nothing had ever been the matter. She looks at him standing in the doorway, waiting eagerly for her reply. He looks just like her own little Robb, asking for a story at bedtime. "We'll see," she answers stiffly. _We'll see?_ How did "no" become "we'll see"?

Jon, however, seems to take this as a yes. His face brightens into a big smile- the kind of unabashed, nothing-held-back smile only very little children seem to be able to manage- and, adding to Catelyn's surprise, he hugs her. At first she gasps, but then, slowly, clumsily, she puts her arms around him and returns the hug. What kind of woman would she be if she didn't? Suddenly, she pities the little boy. Yes, he has Ned and Old Nan and several maidservants who dote on him. But he's never had a mother figure to nurture him or to hug him. She feels the wall she's built around her heart begin to dissolve, if only the tiniest bit.

Maybe she _will_ read to him, after she checks on the baby.

 _Maybe._

But then Jon looks up again, and as he does she sees those brown stranger's eyes looking back at her.

And her heart closes again.


End file.
